“Just because we are working hard does not mean we are making anything happen.” ― Wayne Muller
It is cold. Cold enough to turn the furnace on. The leaves on the maple in the backyard are turning yellow. My neighbors maple is blazing red. The oak and walnut trees have shown their brilliance and released their little yellow leafs to the wet pavement. I am wrapped in my thick fleece bathrobe with a black knitted cap pulled down over my ears. I sit in my little writing studio watching the sky unfold from the east. Golden light gently moves across the treetops and frost covered roofs.
A part of me is startled by this inevitable transition. I am not ready. Where did the long summer days go. Days when I could linger, not rush. Days that seemed endless, despite the nights that always came. Days I could ride my bike through the woods and down by the river after work and stay there until the moon rose. Days I could immerse myself in nature, the ultimate healing balm for my soul.
This has been a good summer. A calm summer. Peaceful and centering. This has been the kind of summer I dreamed of when my son was young. When I was unrelenting in my unconscious quest to prove my worth by the measure of my outer accomplishments. When I blindly flung myself forward to stay ahead of my fear of not being good enough. When the pace of getting it all done was soul crushing.
I remember that time as rushing, running, constant motion, even when I slept it seemed I was in motion. I would wake at 4 am to diligently write my morning pages, my only moment of reflection and stillness. I wrote of my longing for space and time to be still. To not be responsible, to not have appointments or a schedule I was chained to. To say a firm no and then go lay on the couch to read a good novel or simply stare out the window and watch clouds drift by. I dreamed of going for a bike ride or a hike to smell the damp earth and hear the woods whisper to me. I dreamed of breaking my leg, getting sick, something to give me a break. I didn’t know I could simply make the choice to stop, let go and be still.
I longed for less back then and had no idea that less would mean so much letting go. So much confronting my internal feelings of worth and the accompanying anxiety. I now know that I ran, rushed, and stayed in near constant motion in an attempt to stay ahead of looming anxiety that dwelled in my belly. I also know now that the running, the rushing and constant motion was feeding that anxiety in my belly. I was feeding the monster I was running away from. I was keeping myself in a constant loop in which I felt powerless to stop.
A revolution has been happening in my life over the last 6 months. As I wrote a few months ago, I was challenged by my therapist to take the summer off from everything but my day job (still have bills to pay). No projects, no teaching, no side hustle. Just me waking up and asking myself, “What does my heart need in this moment?”
When I think of revolutions I think of violent, loud chaotic scenes filled with bloody carnage—change that is messy. However, my revolution is quiet. It is what I dreamed about when I woke in the early morning hours and stole moments away from the rushing, running and doing that kept me at a distance from my heart. In the darkness at my kitchen table I sat and dreamed of a time when I could simply follow my delight, be still and watch the vibrancy of summer green transition to the brilliant gold of fall.
When confronted with the desire or request to do more my revolution is asking myself these simple questions from the book A Life of Being, Having, and Doing Enough by Wayne Muller (which I highly recommend), “Am I truly able to say I really love this? Or is it more honest to say that I can handle this?” These simple questions always point to what is important, what my heart needs for nourishment.
As the cold sets in and the days wane I am not willing to give up this new space in my life. I think I am going to stay the course for now and continue my quiet revolution.